Gone Screaming

       My daughter has decided I will be the new servant for her new family when the current one goes to give birth, and I'm about to lose the job I just got, because they want my fucking transcript.....in fucking AMERICA. Ha!

Did I mention I tend to realize my circumstantial/emotional/FUCKING LIFE wounds in delayed release?  


       Last week a very obese, bronze, colourfully attired American consulate officer asked me less than five questions, typed straight-faced for five minutes then informed me that I was a filthy dirty nigger liar and my application was denied (and thus access to a large part of my identity).  She didn't actually use those words (though I wish she had) in fact the only time she showed the slightest emotion was when she told me I had misused my visa in the past, I said I had not, and she let out a sharp, deep, groaning "WRONG!" that was filled with a viscous disdain equal to every bit of her large mass.  And I felt like a filthy dirty nigger beggar, but had no choice but to walk out with my head held high, wander down the road with a dignified stride, look both ways, cross the street and make my way to a bourgeois coffee shop, in an Expat shopping area named Le Petit Village, where I sipped a cappuccino while a German man watched me with a wounded confusion as I had denied his open, warm smile, and an older, stately black woman at a business meeting stared at me with fascination; what could be so fascinating about a filthy dirty nigger failure blinking away her tears while dunking her complimentary pastry? 


       That was a monday; my male friends were out of town, and my female friends are bitches so I held my breath (and my tears) till Wednesday.  Instead, I wandered through the hectic city in a silent haze. I made it to the mall, bought a movie ticket, had a beer at sunset, ate chocolate.  

       By Wednesday my breath (and tears) were long forgotten.  Instead I joined the boyz and we partied hard with a town that was busting with all the fresh meat in for the summer.  Old and new pretty faces beamed with happiness to hear I was here for a month and I beamed back and screamed "FUCK America!".  I fell sick before the weekend and stayed in, ignored my relatives, shut myself in my bed, allowed my child to get lost in the feeling of family and not needing me so much. It was only yesterday that I remembered I've been choking on a scream that holds so much lust and hunger in it and there is not a single thing to say because everyone has moved on and who would I say it to anyhow?  My lungs and dreams are fucking bursting with images and tears and filthy dirty nigger rage.

       Do you know how many times this has happened before? To so many thousands of people over the decades of global civilization as we know it? How many times a person has been told, fuck what you know, you are nothing? Often it is in ways just as simple as mine; a letter; a word; a "no"; but just as often, of course, are the more graphic ways we all know from history class. Is it easier when it is just a letter?

Mississippi Masala was a great movie-well actually it was okay and I don't believe it is even considered a stand out in Denzel Washington's career, but it was great to me because I remember seeing it for the first time when I was but a young, naive girl.  We gathered in my uncle's stifling hot apartment (the very same uncle whose home we now occupy, but long before he built the current mansion and even before his wife had to be watched over for fear she would kill her babies).  Back then the crowded apartment was filled with relatives whose faces are a blur, but who exuded warmth and safety, all sitting in eager anticipation to see this long awaited film.  I barely could understand it, save for the fact that it had to do with Uganda....and Denzel Washington; thus, of course, I felt only pride.

hartnursery.co.za

       I've watched the film again only in the last 10 years and at the time I think I was hungry for my home and those memories of exotic, safe, adventures with blurred faces and rituals.  I commiserated with the father in the film, an Indian motel owner, as he read the last rejection of his appeal to the Ugandan government, then gazed at an old, faded photograph of a large compound, much like one I currently am hiding out in, similarly filled with bougainvillea bushes the likes of which I have only ever seen in Uganda. The scene is touching: such romance; such poignancy; such bullshit.


       Who gives a shit about a fucking old house and a bush that is long overgrown?!  When that man looks at the photograph he is quietly feeling like a filthy dirty nothing and beginning to hate the people who have made him feel this way (at least if you believe the claims that current racism from returnee Indian generations is a simmering response to how their parents and grandparents were treated).  Maybe yes, maybe no, but for sure he is fucking screaming; I am fucking screaming, because actually it really is about an old house, a scent of flowers, a place I once stood and the deep hunger to stand there again and say "this was me". It is that fucking simple and being refused that is poignantly brutal indeed.

        And it is about all the people I hoped to look in the eye again, who would see me in a way that just can't happen here; whose ears might hear my voice in a way that just can't happen here; 


        But now my lungs are choking with screams of lust and hunger, and they are too far away to listen....


        Photographs don't look back; fuck what you know; to them, you are nothing....
       

MAKE MISTEAKS

              I have a new therapist, because my mother is a good person, but a terrible role model and I need somewhere to go to vent my fury over her behavior and seek guidance so as not to repeat such mistakes in my own journey in motherhood.  But I digress.  


              My new therapist asked me to come up with an empowering mantra, probably to combat my chronic acute worthlessness syndrome (don't look it up), and also because she is under a lot of pressure to match the momentum my old therapist had going, which threatens to cease during her temporary absence (nice of her to feel obligated to earn that ca$hmoney). The mantra is something that is supposed to be unique (fuck "everything happens for a reason" cliches) and have to do with me, myself (e.g not spiritual or externally directed).  I have actually been having a hard time coming up with something.  I just wasn't feeling inspired by any words of wisdom that I would find uplifting.  Then the other morning, I received this email ("received" was a new vocab word for Ms. V yesterday and the previous sentence is how she showed she understood the word; I said yes, but also you can receive normal mail, like from a post office; she had no idea what I was talking about-granted there are no personal mailboxes in Uganda or Tz, but it still made me shudder and a scene from Terminators came to mind) but I digress:




Dear Jill, [except he used a very intimate tribal name that NOBODY calls me except in traditional greeting and that he was specifically asked NOT use, even while we were dating that stuff happened]


                 How are u doing dear? its been ages [yes, yes it has, specifically because I begged and pleaded for him to dis-exist from my life.  I wrote a long email detailing exactly why we would never "have dinner as friends" and promised to not HATE him if he promised to leave me alone.....2 years ago, but emotionally it was never, as in it never happened. THIS NEVER HAPPENED!] I pray and hope you are fine and doing well [what is a good analogy for the creep factor in having someone you are so vehemently disgusted by "praying for you"?  Like a pedophile apologizing while molesting his victim, Prayer has never felt so corrupted to me] I have been thinking about you so much of late and i am wondering whether u can squeeze a little time and we have another cup of tea like we did last time [Eww, "squeeze".  Ha! This is funny.  The last time I did see him was after he sent a text that he had moved to Kampala from his village home and had been passing my house every morning for five months on his way to work, hoping to see me. Though he had betrayed me in a way that almost cost me my entire brand, my existential guilt won out and I thought God may be tricking me and I should reach out to this fellow Being with only Love and Mercy in my heart to prove I was better.  I had a terrible flu and he spent five minutes discussing the benefits of vitamin C: "as found in citrus fruits.....orange, lemons, uhmmmm, there are others". I tried really hard to vomit on him, but unfortunately I wasn't that sick].   


Today morning, i have gone thru all the emails you sent me and was glad to see the two btful photos u once sent me.... [Grrosss, GROSS, GROSS, GROSS. What pics? I totally forgot about this.]


Also, i was happy to see an email which had our old, special  names... (Turtle and Trekker.)[For fuck sakes!] My whole morning has been great... and with old, sweet memories [Anyone who is PATHETIC enough to admit this is NOT in God's Favor-no existential guilt needed]


...i cant 4get the day we climbed the mountain and visited that family at the top..and gave them some money.. then the river, and stone throwing. [I remember how miserable and worthless I felt that day. I thought I had malaria, but in retrospect, I think I kept closing my eyes and doubling over in shame not illness.]


i lost my other fone, with your contact, i wld have called u.[I NEVER answer you're fucking calls ya DOUCHE] please call me on (0782--- --- or 0704 --- --)if u are within Uganda[ Someone must have tipped him off that I left.....ahhhhh! He went back to the old house. Ugandans are MAGNIFICENT stalkers....I should know] i will be glad to hear from u.


Best regards, "Ed"




              After dealing with the waves of nausea and fury that hit me after reading this (alleviated only by the idea of what a great post it would make), I had sudden clarity as to my own "remember me" shout-outs to past lovers.  I shuddered with shame.  I had just been musing about the sentimental logic of perhaps shooting a once-upon-a-BRIEF-time guy an email, just, you know, to see how he was doing (like it is to HIS benefit; like without my email enquiry he may suffer tremendously).  And now, with the roles reversed and my potential behavior reflected back at me, I have no choice but to acknowledge how WRONG, how painfully, humiliatingly, sacrilegiously WRONG it is to EVER send such an email when you know, by silence or direct communication, that your sentimental affections are UNRECIPROCATED.  


                As I contemplated this conclusion, my mantra came floating down to me like a whisper from an angel:


                           I AM BETTER THAN THIS.

P.Y.T

Once Upon a Time.....(time, time, time)


         When I was roughly 11 years old, give or take some months, we took a trip to Malaysia, specifically the island of Penang.  We stayed with an old friend of my mother's who was, at the time, in an open marriage with an obviously (even to me, then) gay man and she was obviously (even to me, then) a lesbian.  Why they insisted on being married, I cannot understand now, but this odd discrepancy also seemed acceptable and obvious to me, then.


           During this trip, our hosts took us on the Penang Hiking Trails; we mostly just trooped along the ridges enjoying the view.  I believe this was my first mountain hike,

wn.com

after which we came back down to feast on steamed fish and rice cooked in coconut milk by vendors on the side of the street. We never saw the inside of a restaurant that whole trip (it is a blessing to see a new country with foreigners who live there-they have the perfect balance of understanding of where you are coming from and knowing what gems to show you that may be dismissed by locals as sub-par).


        At night we would visit a food stall area popular with tourists that was well known for every stall being named Chez whoever owned it: Chez Joe; Chez Ahmed, etc.

        Our hosts ordered for me a pile of hot steaming noodles covered in a melange of fresh seafood. My stomach was not sophisticated enough to eat more than a few bites, but I made note of that image and have spent the rest of my life drooling over the memory of that neglected meal.

www.rasamalaysia.com

        One morning we visited a beach cafe and I sat with my mother and brother (who was 7-ish) eating eggs for breakfast.  On a nearby table a young, brooding, Adonis-like, man sat alone, drinking coffee, looking at no one.  His long hair, and delicate hands, screamed "sensual artist", even to my pre-pubescent self.  I hated the humility of being there with my family, and supposed if I were alone, then we would surely meet and have a torrid love affair, the details of which I'm sure I hadn't quite figured out.  This was my first taste of Lust; and to be honest, my M.O in men has never changed.


          Later we visited the Kek Lok Si Temple, to take a magical tour of gigantic golden and stone Buddha statues set in caves; this was my first experience of religion on such a grandiose scale.  This was my first sense of the Sacred Spirit.

www.photobunga.com

        After the statues we met a Malay Intuitive Reader (Psychic); we prayed with her and she blessed us; she then shuffled my brother and I into another room so she could give my mother a personal reading. My mother was frightened by the experience and never spoke about what the woman said though implied it was too close to the Truth.

tohno-chan.com

           We found ourselves, on a hot, bright, sunny afternoon, in a dimly lit, empty bar/restaurant, looking for a cool drink.  It was quite empty, but there were a few businessmen scattered at tables nearer to the bar and the karaoke stage where a very drunk Asian businessmen crooned into the afternoon air:


                    Raindrops keep fallin on my head
                   And just like the guy-
                   whose feet are too big for his bed
                   Nothing seems to fit.....


         This was my first experience of Karaoke; I have loved it ever since, along with that song which I try to find and sing in every karaoke bar I have ever been too.  I felt sad for the lonely, drunk, man then but think of him fondly today.  I understand, now, the look of a man who was proudly fearless, even in his sorrow. The quintessential Cowboy.


          Our hosts lived just a short walk away from the water and one afternoon I confidently left the house and made this walk, inspired by the calling of the wild ocean tides-I was growing up; I was weary of my mother's skirts.  I sat on the small cliffs and looked out into the sea, captivated.  I must have been quite caught up because I don't remember the men approaching me.  One minute I was alone, the next minute two fat, shirtless, hairy, sweaty white men had gathered around me.  They must have been in their forties, their language delineated them as Eastern Europeans. They cackled and cajoled (at me? how would I know what they were saying?); then one man came next to me and put his arm tight around my shoulders pulling me into his sweaty naked flesh; the other stood before us and pointed a video camera at us; they continued their garbled, rough speaking; the one man kept grinning and pulling me tighter-I think they wanted me to smile, but they never spoke to me; I was a thing.  I scrambled away and disappeared back to the house.


         I sat on the steps outside the front door, until I was sure my bright shame was tucked down, deep inside.  Nothing to get worked up about, right? Doesn't even make it on the radar of possible happenings to young girls alone in the company of men, right? Except from that day on, long before I had developed a sexual identity, I knew what it was like to be a sexual object.


         Last week I decided to become more proactive about this weight loss thing.  I always envy the young men who, ritualistically, come to the shore of any beach in Dar or Zanzibar, at sundown, and begin a casual regiment of the most fierce and disciplined calisthenics and exercise routine I have ever seen outside of a military setting.  It is an awe-inspiring ritual, but it seems reserved for boys and men only. But still, I thought, what could be the harm in taking a walk on the beach? (This question ruminated in my mind for at least two weeks, so I suppose, somewhere, deep inside, there was an answer).


         I made one circuit round the beach then scrambled for a cliff top, where there were some Muslim school girls sitting, I came and sat close to them (for some reason this made me feel safe) and took in the view, allowed my shoulders to relax from the tension I didn't know I was holding.  I saw him approach out of the corner of my eye but still thought nothing of it, until the sweaty, stupid, shameless man was sitting so close to me I could feel his hot breath. His leering eyes looked through me (why ME? I wanted to shout, go for the Muslim girls then! I am NOT A PRETTY YOUNG THING!!!) It was the way he greeted me, like my response or reaction was predetermined, like pressing power on a computer screen and just assuming it will light up; I was expected to respond, I was expected to greet him for the SOLE REASON that he had greeted me (Why do men DO THIS??? Why is this SUCH a constant in my life?? Would it make me so sick if it wasn't for the echoes in my head, the tucked away memories?) 


        I jumped up so fast he reacted like he thought I meant to push him off the cliff; he jumped up too and dashed off, but I was already out past the parking lot, crossing the street.


         I had walked half a kilometer before I could unclench my hands and quiet my throbbing heart; the ocean view long out of sight; even the sound of the tide rushing was overwhelmed by the echoes of those fat, sweaty, laughing, men.....








                    Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
                    But that doesn't mean my eyes-
                    will soon be turnin red
                    Cryin's not for me, cause
                    I'm never gonna stop the rain-
                    by complaining....

Your Mother Has Been Caught (2)

        The thing about playing Visitor in a world such as this, is that it is very easy to forget this is not a game for the people who inhabit it; they are not playing; for them, this is real.


        It didn't take long for reality of living in a mud hut with one mother, one younger brother, one best friend, a handyman/driver, and several village rats, to grate on my apparently fragile nerves.  I thought 48 hours was heroic, but the troop was nonplussed by my decision to beg off the trip to the market and instead bask in some much needed alone time.


        Even alone (save for the rats), being cooped up in a mud hut was not appealing; instead I chose to sit beneath the big tree, drinking leftover tea from the large saucepan.  I am not sure what advanced form of technology was used to divine that I had stayed behind, alone, but as soon as the message was received an executive guard was sent to awkwardly stand on centurion duty in my best interest.  The guard came in the form of an 13 year old boy named Ham.  Ham, ironically, was made up of not much more than bone-thin, malnourished arms, and a great wide smile; he looked to be about 9, such as it goes.  But I have mispoken; among those superficial qualties, he also possesed a valuable gift: the unyielding sense of duty to protect and look after me.  I was willful, desperate, and in my defense, thoroughly Americanized; I could not understand this gift or why I should need protection and set about making myself wholy unagreeable and put off until I chased him away.


       Shortly thereafter, a man came down the path that seperated our compound with that of our host.  He was carrying a jerrycan for fetching water and not far behind him followed 3 young girls doing the same.  It was then that I realized, this path was the main access to the well at the bottom of the hill in the lower fields.  In chasing away my centurion I had left myself utterly exposed to be gawked at by pretty much ninety percent of the village, who would all need to fetch water at some point for their household duties.

And gawk they did.  They were not going to waste this jewel of an opportunity to have a real live Black Mzungu sitting on display before them whilst they carried out one of the more gruesome tasks of village life.  The tableaux I painted, with skin bursting at the seems with extra flesh, legs long and heavy, feet soft, fingers carelessly adorned with rusted jewels, would have been aptly labeled "La Negresse En Chomage". It would have been considered a provokingly ironic piece of art, should the gawkers have had the time, language, or inclination to articulate what they saw.


     Needless to say, I soon scrambled to the safety of the hut, to commiserate my humilation with the sympathetic rats and peer through the small wooden windows, my hubris tucked between my legs. I could hear Aesop's ghost laughing in the treetops. At one point, I watched a man come down the path on his bicycle, pause, and look directly, or so it felt, at my hidden form. He watched and waited; I watched and waited. In a sudden show of bravado, he threw his bicycle to the ground and walked with swagger to the hut that resembled a dog's house. It was not a dog's house; it was, in fact, our outhouse; and this man was now defecating in what I could only assume was a luxury: the privacy of a privy.  He came out and took one more cocky glance my way before resuming his journey. I squealed at this affront, and ducked down into my mattress, having lost all interest in the scenic view. 


     In time, I feel asleep, only to wake to the troop of children surrounding my mud castle with chants for me to come and play. Perhaps the messenger service, realizing my aversion to Ham, had decided to appeal to my maternal nature while still securing adequate watch over me.  It didn't work. At first I sat up in fear, feeling as if the Wolf himself was at my doorstep, daring to blow my house in; my three little hairs were at an end. But soon enough, as I realized the rusty nail that was my bolt was doing much to keep the children in check, I sat back and listened with amusement to their lilting, sing-song chants heroically made in broken English, while the leader of the pack futilely scolded them: "move off, she's asleep, move off!" By the proximity of her voice, I knew she, herself, was too enchanted with my possible emergence to mean what she said. 


       I must have drifted off again. I awoke, the second time, with a Snow White resolve to cheerfully adapt to my novel, rural life. With virtuous humming, I looked out at the setting sun and proclaimed:


       "I will go and light the fire."......

Your Mother Has Been Caught (1)

Once Upon a Time....(time, time, time)


          It was near about Christmas time and the family had decided to spend it deep in the village. Not our ancestral home, but a village in Uganda near to a town called Hoima.  This place had become a kind of home for us as we had decided to commit our love and support to enriching the ancient land and empowering the people.


          The exact place in this village that we called home was a plot adjacent to a man with five wives,  two brothers, and a gaggle of babies between them. He was a prominent member of the village council.


           When we first visited his home to show our respect to his hosting us, we went to the back of his compound behind the main house where there was the typical hard dirt area and a hut for the kitchen.  The babies were everywhere, in all shapes and sizes, with large dark eyes indicating the distinct relation to their father (underneath the dirt you could believe they were the children of a king).  By the kitchen hut lay a sleeping pig with engorged pink nipples, a dusty dog with puppies tucked beneath her, and a young woman beached on a mat and heavy with pregnancy, staring listlessly at the visitors; the flies intermittently landed on each one and all seemed too bored and bloated to do a thing about them.  Every year I've gone since-though it has been awhile-there is always a fresh baby to hold whose eyes still have that blank, blind look about them, but they are large and dark, just like their fathers.


        On this particular occasion, we had come more by self-indulgent capriciousness, rather than dogmatic dedication.  We had come to play.  My mother had charge of three naughty twenty-something year olds, young enough to need her protection, old enough to demand freedom for mischief.  We were carelessly innocent.  It was a perfect holiday brood.


       The abode we called home, in that adjacent plot, was made entirely of sticks and mud and we would giggle when we forgot and tried to lean against the wall, only to have pieces of the house come crumbling down.  Lucky for us no wolves came knocking. Our kitchen was the open fire under the big tree, and it was often here that visitors and family alike would gather and commune.  


        The babies were allowed to escape from the eternal tedium of their lives to join in the adventure of watching and interacting with us-visitors from another world.  When they weren't playing "throw rocks and dirt" or stealing fruit we would have given them anyway (a habit of the perpetually hungry), they were waiting on hand for any instance that they could find to run an errand for us: fetch sticks for the fire, bring us some fresh cut sugar cane, or dig up some greens for supper.  Only one of the wives was actively in charge-it was not the young woman I had seen earlier.


        They willingly allowed us to play with them like dolls, piling them up for pictures, adjusting their torn, insignificant clothes to hide their genitals from the peering eye of the camera. It didn't take long to observe there was a distinct character designation among this troop of 9-12 children. There were leaders, fighters, and a caretaker who managed the disturbing act of maintaining an infant of no more than 12 weeks on his small bony back while playing a game of futbol.  At times I would dare to intervene, lifitng the wailing baby to me, gently clearing the dirt from her eyes, asking that she be sent back to her mother "where she belonged".  But, even at such a fresh age, she new whom to depend on; she would only wail harder until she was back in the arms of the boy. And should she be sent to her mother, within 15 minutes he would come trumping through the dirt path, shoulders hunched and strong, the wailing baby tucked between them in her rightful place.  I never stopped marveling at how gentle he could be with her, a mere four or five years old himself. No, that is not an underestimation or a miscalculation due to his malnutrition: by two you can help your mother with small tasks, by four you are the primary babysitter, by six you will have had your first beer-this is Village life, and we are only visitors.
         


         Or so I thought.....


        
        
     

Adopting Woes

         "But how?? How d-d-do you open your heart?"  She wails.


         I respond without hesitation; I respond instinctively from some place deep within; some steel center of Divine Force. I respond while having to convince every doubtful, broken, willful bit of my being that what I speak is Truth. I have to do this with such reflexive speed that the questioning, internal healing, and resulting response leaving my lips happen in a seamless transition. We step through a portal....


          I'm beginning to understand all the horror stories I've read in adoption blogs and forums. Parents safely claim, "it only gets worse". Bitches. I understand the need for them to make this claim; having become conditioned to that first version of the child they bring home (specifically if the child is above the age of 6). What they-we-fail to comprehend is that, that first version is just a shell, a protective layer made of head-nodding obedience, and intuitive, survival-bred manipualtion  (actually, they say babies are biologically designed the same way: with large eyes and reflexive smiles, they are made to seduce us into nurturing them).  It is US who make the mistake in believing that their instinct for survival, their adaptation is some special secret saved for those that have suffered and is thus a permanent gift of theirs, a skill, a magic weapon, that they will use without guidance or teaching forever and ever as they see fit. I understand it, but I do not approve.  Having read the horror stories, and commiserating woes found in many of these forums, I am left feeling disgusted.  The laments are always the same, "she/he was so great when we brought him/her home, but now we don't know what to do?!?"  How foolish they all are when the creature grows so comfortable it lets its guard down and bites, because biting is all it knows...
         How dare we-they-be so shocked that when that loving shell cracks, inside there is a vulnerable little thing, perhaps malformed from lack of exposure to the Light. A scared, broken being, perhaps vicious from fear that you will now see it and turn away in disgust or fear-"this isn't what we were expecting".....


       Watching my child collapse in anguish has that cliche, slow motion, car crash feeling.  It is actually happening.  This is happening and everything I say to her will cement, now and forever, my emotional bond with her. Yes, it IS now and forever, because I can remember wailing out my anguish at her age, my mother holding me, and me knowing she had no FUCKING clue how to help me; she had no FUCKING clue how much of my pain was rooted in her careless behavior; she was so busy being frightened.  And that has never changed.

        
         This thought only adds to the secret fear that what I am seeing in the face of my wailing, agonizing, child is the results of a few months under my influence.  As if this fear is not damned-full enough, beneath or alongside it is the thought, "also, she does come from your blood, maybe she is just revealing the same innate flaws you daily fight with; after-all, we all know how her mother was....


         All this while, we smugly pondered at how easily the Little One has been left seemingly un-affected by her tragic circumstance.  It was easy to get used to someone who seemed to reject the natural damage of a tragic circumstance [maybe it's just as easy to get used to a daughter who has always steeped herself in mourning.  So used that you never think to pull her out of it].  It was easy to feel arrogant (even though we only lucked out) that this poor, innocent thing-innocent of her poverty-should fall into our care; as if, by her natural ability to adapt, we have proven ourselves capable.  It's been easy, and the hard part is just beginning....


          I scramble to retard the momentum of despair that is building fast; I sing the pop song* I've written her.  Even in emotional upheaval, she has time to pause, listen, and smile at me with sincere enjoyment. (I knew it was a hit) but it doesn't last for long.  As soon as the song is over her eyes go large and black again; her shoulders squeeze together while her body shudders and shakes with her cries. 
           So....I speak French;  the bits and pieces of inaccurate phrases tumble from my lips while I stroke her controrted face: "Ne pleus pas mon fils-ma fille (ma fils...damn that's not right, but it sounds a lot better-whatever she don't know); "c'est pas grave"....


       [Unless it is, unless its you crying because you want to go live with my sister and not moody, silly, me.  Unless it's you crying because the genes in your body just kicked in and this is only the tip of the iceberg. Then, I'm afraid, it might be a bit more serious- Or not? Am I so regretful of who I am, I fear the idea you might be like me someday? Hmmmm....I can't say that I am my Love.] 


       "Life is sooooo HARD!!". She is mourning for the FIRST time since the day I watched her across the grave where her mother lay while dirt was thrown on top. My sister clung to me, and even through my own tears, I could not help but notice how she cried and sniveled like a broken, little girl-except there was the little girl whose mother was disappearing, looking on, calm and serene.  


         "Well it's about fucking time isn't it", the deep steel center of me throbs this feeling out through my bones,  "Bare witness Lady: THIS. Is. Your. Job."


         Whatever is yet to heal in me has to be left for another day, my daughter is flailing herself into a pit of despair, and that isn't going to happen on my watch.  I am not going to stand back in fear.  I know, in that moment, it is up to us to decide, once and for all, how we are gonna live our lives, or else our pains/fears will decide for us:


       "No! Enough now, Vannesa! Come on, this isn't you!! Enough crying, NO! Life IS BEAUTIFUL!! Yes it is hard sometimes, okay, and yes you can cry, but then you have to stop and say ENOUGH.  It's beautiful even when it is hard, my Little One.  And sometimes we have bad days and the sad thoughts shout at us, but then you just have to shout back, with your heart (I place my hand on her thin chest and INVOKE the Will of God that what I speak be a Blessing) You have to SHOUT back with all the wonderful blessings you've had in your life, all the good memories and stories.  Come on now-"


        Her wailing has stopped, but I think-I know-it is only paused, "But how?? How d-d-do you open your heart?"


        I speak quietly now, but with feverish force-["yes, I know this is Truth-give it to her and tell your fears to shut the fuck up about it." my heart reminds me]:
        "By Loving someone; by being kind to someone who needs it (her thin arms snake their way around my neck and pull me close to her face so I have to whisper); or by being Loved or having someone be kind to you; by those moments when you let yourself feel total Peace (Relaxed Body, Easy Mind*); by seeing something beautiful-like the sunlight in your eyes, or the clouds or the trees, or a baby smiling; by laughing with a -"


      "You know what?" she whispers, "I need a book.  I have to write down everything you've ever told me.  I have to not forget."  
      "You're going to write down what I say, like I write down what you say to me?" (she nods) "Okay, that seems fair; good idea, baby."


      There is a brief stillness, "I will NEVER forget my mother." Her eyes well up again, she sounds so damn desperate.  [No, My Love, I have you now, I won't let you fall again.]  
       "Of course you won't!! No, of course not. Baby, sometimes we can open our hearts through sadness too! Through the mourning of someone we loved who is gone, through feeling the pain of someone else's loss, or the pain in the world, but only when we let that sadness teach us, and in the end we find Peace again....  And you know what?  I will never forget her either. I have learned so much about life from your stories of your mother.  I think about her everyday. Every. Single. Day.  So of course we won't forget her. Both of us.... Actually, why don't we write down in a book all the stories of your mummy also, so that we won't forget?"
       "Okay...."


        Our bond perhaps exists in our screwed up genes, or in our broken hearts-perhaps.  No matter; it will, definitely exist now in the way we choose to remember, in the stories we choose to tell, in the words we use to tell them.


         Our hands are dirty; her mother is buried; she is in my arms now; we will walk away now, and we will write our stories, because Our. Life. Is. Beautiful....


       

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

"Goddess Brigit inspires, empowers and encourages us to express our Truth through our purpose.  She offers assistance in releasing and transcending fears; self-limiting patterns and unhealed energy, helping us to feel protected and supported through any and all aspects of self-expression and communication."
Who is Goddess Brigit

          The night ended on a funny note as far as Truth telling goes (in Uganda "funny" more often refers to disturbing, uncomfortable, unnatural, wrong. But in Uganda, we have no negative feelings-no wait, we have no words for negative feelings): I was snuggled up to the Little One- we were both reveling in the peace and love and nurturing that occurred between us and within us today; plus I was feeling quite ill (either Malaria again, or tooth gone rot-most likely both-but surely not throat cancer...?!?) 
          I was sick and she was sick of the ghosts that have been hampering her dreams and evening hours. Silly little children's fear, right? Not to this proud heathen.  There's definitely some superstitious happenings that have been going on in the last few days; individually, each of us have felt...invaded (even as I write this I hear her whispering in her sleep and the feeling of a real conversation occurring in front of my blind eyes is making my mama-bear fur stand on end). 
         So we were snuggled, and what begun as scary ghost stories turned into giggling real life stories that were far scarier than the idea of astral-travelling evil relatives and a recently passed mother's protection:


             "Aunty please sleep with me!! When you sleep with me, I'm so comfortable."
             
             "You're comfortable when you sleep with anyone."


"Yes, that's true."


              This introduction led to the topic of the very few men that were listed on the "it's okay to sleep with" list. This in turn led to the topic of why other men were not okay to sleep with. This topic was disturbingly led by the little one:


             "But I don't want some man, you know, kissing me, ewww gross!"


             "Why would a man want to kiss a little girl? (please, please, please say you just heard from so and so that such and such)


             She leans in like an wise owl schooling a naive little chickadee, "You knowww, in Uganda...heh...there are men who kiss. little. children." 


             I try to re-assert my authority on the subject, proclaiming my vast understanding of the evils of pedophilia. "Yes I know, those men are everywhere. They are very very sick and bad.


             "Yes, I know." She looks at me trying to asses if I am worldly enough to handle what comes next; and I'm fairly sure I am not but will attempt to fake it.  "Let me tell you..." 


            What comes next is a play by play account of the cancer-stricken man who lived across the street from her and her mother's apartment, the women (and girls) who frequented his home, and the group of little girl's who avidly stalked him in order to report back to authorities-guess who was their leader...
              In the first episode, she'd witnessed said man approach a "beautiful, half-naked" woman walking down the street, propositioned her, led her back to his house, and had some sort of...relations with said woman (I could not lie there and let her try and describe what she did not understand, I had to insert..."gross things?" to stifle my mental freak-out), the most scandalous being he reached over her and stuck his hand in her..."what is this they wear? bla? As IF wanting to TOUCH her breast!" We both looked at each perplexed and disturbed by this possibility (well I was disturbed by the fact that this conversation was happening, but there it is). I got a comic relief from my disquiet when she explained her return home:


         "So I ran home and my heart was just beating: UH-HEH, UH-HEH..." she pants heavily, demonstrating, rolling on the bed, closing her eyes with hand to little chest. "Mummy asked me what happened and I couldn't even talk...I just lied there until I was asleep"


         Part 2, according to her, was the "not so scary" episode, involving a child, who judging by the height she indicated was about 2 or 3 years old, but considering her heroic escape, "she was a clever gal", she sounds more like Jackie Chan aged 35. Though I was too curious to know if she actually stayed and watched the whole episode above, this time I begged for her to cease and desist, I was SCARED, this was too REAL.  She denied my request-welcome to the big girls club:


         "And now he brings home a young gal, and he says 'take off your dress' but she was a clever gal and she says 'no! why should I?!' and he says, 'so I can give you medicine', so the gal took off one dress but she had one on underneath." 
          And the man gets angry, and he shouts at her, she hits him, he shakes her, she kicks him and runs out of the house. 
         "When I saw her kick him I thought, eh! this is a clever gal. I told myself then that if anyone tried to kiss me, I would kick them just like that gal. So when she came running, for us, we called her, 'eh come, come!' And I said, 'wow, clever gal, good job'. And she screamed, 'RUN, Ruuuuunnnn, don't stay here!!' And then she just...ehhh-started crying and shaking like what."


        Mind you understand, though her mother had not given express consent to these...investigations (I hope, I hope, I sincerely hope) Each of these episodes (I will assume they were more and it was only her mercy for me that made her end her tales) were immediately reported back in detail to her mother, and the response was more to confirm what a bad man he was, than to try to heal or reinstate the innocence of her child.   


        This is not a story of trauma, this is a story of communication and it's to POWER:  Are you afraid of the dark?  I know I am.  But don't let the dark know; tell it to go to hell.  You got an evil-witch sending you bad dreams? Sing a child's song about how stupid she is to make you think of your biggest fear-losing the ones you belong to...again.  If there are dirty men in the world and you know too much about it, make a list of all the men you feel safe with, and torture your Aunty with a scary fairy-tale. After all she's there with you, and the dark is not as powerful as her warmth and her love.

EATING THE BAD AND GETTING A STOMACH ACHE

            I had to have a talk with the little one about the silent tornado that’s been blowing through the house the past few days, destroying all the rhythm, routine, and joyful structure we’ve created.  It’s called cycling: the hormonal brewing that happens with women that leads to a bubbling over of nasty emotions-like pus from a popped zit-nasty because they are unnecessary and not having much to do with our True Selves.

            In the fourth and fifth grade I was in a program called T.A.G, it was a state run program in the American public school system that stood for “Talented and Gifted”.  Children were chosen by falling into a certain percentile of test scores, but then the chosen were further divided into the full-time and half-time versions of the program, apparently by names being drawn from a hat.  What is so inexplicable about this arbitrary distribution is there was a startling difference from the two, namely, full time TAG had a special bus and were given sex education-with condom demonstrations and all.  I was in half-time TAG, spending the morning with the regular kids then heading of to Mrs. Norris’ class for math and English. 

            There were many wonderful things about our little clan, but the best treat (also inexplicably unfair) for being in the half-time version was we got to put on school plays.  These were huge productions that took months to prepare and permitted us to be pulled out of class at the impulsive whim of the director. I always got the “extras” parts because I was years away from knowing I had a Light and my Light had a Voice; but no matter how small the role you played, being a part of these plays was an undeniably epic part of each of our childhoods.

            In fifth grade, one of our plays was a musical mishmash of the Greek myths; I will never forget the rendition of the Andromeda, the daughter of Casseoipia, who was punished for her mother's vanity by being trapped on an island in the middle of the sea. The theme song was as explicitly simplistic as a song could be; the chorus, in loud, whining proclamations:

It’s All My Mother’s Fault!

It’s All My Mother’s Fault!

What-EVER Happ-ens in My

LIIIFE,

It’s All My Mother’s Fault!

            So a few days ago I ask the Little One, “Do you think I’m mad at you?” She shakes her head no, which throws me for a loop; I had imagined that’s what all these puppy-dog, “why me?” looks she’d been throwing at me had been about; but I got no further explanations from my prodding. So I say, “I love you very much, more than I can even say; I love you as if you were my very own baby”, I cuddle her close to me in our living room couch, pressing her back into my beating heart [Given what will follow I feel a bit…nauseated that this was the first time I mentioned such a love……but such is Life]. “Can I tell you?, I continue, “And it’s OKAY to tell Mukaka; this is NOT a secret…but being around Mukaka-I’m not saying she is a bad person-but she behaves in ways that are not so nice…to me, that make it very hard to…take care of you and her the way I want to.” (I have contemplated this confession for days following up to this moment, and YES, there are a million alarm bells going off in my head telling me I could be making things worse, fucking things up, but I just cannot STAND the silent tornado that may very well destroy us all; whatever was going on, growing up, there was always silence, especially from my father-and it was Pure Poison; it’s no good, the silence.) “I think sometimes you copy her, and treat me in ways that aren’t so…respectful, you know?” she nods, “and it’s hard if it’s both of you; it’s hard enough when it’s just her, but when it’s both of you, it’s like two against one, you know?” more nodding, “so I just wish you could find a way to not act like that so much, to not copy that not so nice behavior…” (here it seems like I switch gears, but really I’m just so desperate to use this opportunity to say what’s been on my mind and heart for awhile now, both the pain and the pleasure…)

            “But you know, underneath it all, you are just SO amazing.  No matter how many mistakes you make in life, no matter how many good things you do, underneath it all, You. Are. Amazing. Do you think so?” “She gives a HARD shake no (from a girl who mostly communicates with her eyelashes, be it yes, no, or go f*ck yourself, this was tragically enthusiastic) I pull her close to me again, “I know you don’t but you have to learn. You have to learn because when people hurt you, you will think they are right to hurt you, and you well then hurt yourself by not being all the things you can be or doing all the things you can do, just because you do not realize how Great you are......maybe that’s what happened to me, and that is why I can get so easily upset with Mukaka; I’m still having to learn that I am amazing. SO, you have to learn to believe it so nobody, even me, can hurt you.” She got it, not completely yet, but more than one would expect of a child (most of her life has necessitated an acceptance and comprehension that is far more than one would expect of a child) I was thus not surprised that despite her hearing me out, she was not exactly sympathetic to my position…

A Day of Reckoning (Part 3)

Looking at the past is a whole lot uglier than the movies would suggest.  The day after Christmas, my parents got into a heated argument on the inane topic of who would ride in what car when they went to visit relatives the following day.  The power was out; it was late, coming to 10 o’clock and the house was half-lit by the erratically placed solar panels.  They sat in the darkened living room carelessly raising their voices into the shadowed halls switching seamlessly from English to vernacular, as they tend to do when excited.  And the Little One and I both wandered in and out of rooms running from the voices, or the shadows, or both.  She had her Big-Hungry-Eyes on, and persistently chanted ‘Mukaka said she was going to make me matoke and groundnuts’ though it was I who was doing the peeling, and the determination of her finger sucking made it clear, she and I both knew the plan had been diverted.  And somewhere in the midst of my fury and-shall I say it??? Okay then-FEAR, from my memories slipped out my own silent story; now I will give it voice (But DON’T tell Vannesa!):

“Once upon a time…time, time, time”, I think to myself.  I am probably about 3 years old. If this did happen, and I’m not saying it did, I’m just saying I remember it, and it would be my first memory. It is in the middle of the night, we are all dressed for sleep, and my father is chasing my mother around a small neat living room with a 3 piece sofa set, t.v, coffee table, and white carpeting.  She is screaming and beautiful in a long silk nightdress.  I am scared and confused, but determined to act like nothing untoward is happening.  So I shout like a small, spoilt child “I NEED TO WEE-WEE!!” And they are running around this loveseat sofa like fucking Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd (I mean, how ridiculous can you be?!? But that thought had no voice at the time.) My mother shouts down at me, ‘JUST DO IT!’ So I lift up my white nightdress, squat down on the white rug and urinate as they continue to playing out this mad melodrama. And I think-I mean, I remember, feeling relieved, like ‘yes, of course, that was what was bothering me.’

  Cellular Memory- that was what the Snake Priestess called it. She told me that my hatred and revulsion of snakes was born of the memories of my ancestors that very literally existed in my cells.  She explained, ‘being from East Africa means you come from the home of some of the most poisonous snakes in the world. For your ancestors, the feeling of a snake slithering across their feet in the middle of the night, for example, would rightly be cause for great alarm. That instinct of fear still resides in your body, but now you have the chance to heal it, not just for you, but on their behalves as well.  By the second day I was making out with the damn thing. She touched a nerve, and it happened to be the right one. 

A Day of Reckoning (Part 2)

At my father’s house, which we have invaded with Christmas spirit, there are 3 dogs, two of whom we gave him when his older ones died.  Having just lost my two dogs from unexpected illness, it is hard to be around them; but for the most part they are reticent of us since they don’t see as too often.  There is only one who has insisted on befriending me; he finds me alone writing or lighting the charcoal grill to save gas, and cautiously and with great deference approaches me with wagging tail. He reminds me of Vannesa (but DON’T tell her I said that!). They are both so emotionally naïve and thus able to love with unabashed intuition; she and he, both have the ability and willingness to invoke restraint in their affection the minute they feel their “caretakers” demand it.  I think this is okay for a puppy, but it frightens me with Vannesa.

            If Vannesa isn’t telling one of her usual stories (Once upon a time…) she will indulge in a quick gossip session with the equally ritualistic words of “Can I tell you?”, often followed by the command: “But DON’T tell [so-and-so]!”.  This command is a habit I hope to break her of as I prove my trustworthiness, while teaching her the difference between stories and secrets (a difference I have faith in but have never thought to articulate).

            Yesterday, she gave me a mixed dose. What began as a story: “Once upon a time…”, “time, time, time”, I eagerly replied (I’m adoring the depth that this ritual gives these moments), also contained the distinction of secrecy: “But DON’T tell Mukaka!” (grandmother-my mother).  And then in her stunted, halting, lyrical tone-often stopping to correct her English she told me of a memory; this is the edited version:

           

            One day, when I was 5 or 6 years old, mummy was sick-but not sick like…like when she went to die, eh? She was sick with flu-okay, not flu, but also cough and when her legs were paining so she almost couldn’t walk.  So mummy told me to go and make porridge. And I was sooo happy; (in song) ‘I’m going to cook por-ridge, I’m going to cook por-ridge…’ And while I was cooking a man, who was NOT family (you know, mummy showed me ALL of our family, so that I know who we are).  So that man came into the house and mummy was shouting, so I came in and said ‘eh! Who do you think you are? You’re not my family, who are you?!?’ And he said, ‘MOVE!’ And mummy said, ‘SHUT UP!!’ And I laughed and laughed-I like that word, ‘shuttup’.  And mummy took me into another room and told me to abuse this man and tell him to go and that he was not welcome.  Then there were visitors arriving, my two uncles.  Mummy said, ‘you see this man, he is coming into our house even though he is not our family!’ And my uncles shouted at the man and started beating him. One uncle was even about to cut his legs, and I said, ‘Nooooo!’ Then I pushed him like this...like this, out of the door and took his shoes and threw them.  Then mummy said to my uncles (in whispers) ‘thank you, he was about to kill me.’  And I tell you? The porridge got burnt and I had to make another one-hahaha.

            I feel guilty telling this story-someone else’s story-with such ease, when I cannot seem to find the words to tell my own.  Why is it so much easier to write of my life through my relationship with the Little One, as it happens right now, but I cannot find the language to write of my life as it happened 20 years ago; to write of things I swear I healed long ago? But I have insisted this post be used for weighing up; calculating the different stories; putting them in their rightful places; demanding they add up to something that makes sense. And this blog has insisted it is to be ruthless in its mission, ‘I must write it plainly and thoroughly-poetically or not’; there is a message I am seeking, there is a message I need to be found…

Was this story told to me before or after the shouting in the living room?